flintloque-logo-304x90"Foul Mouth Freddy Loses the ****ing Chest"

A Flintloque Short Story by Tony Harwood

Miniature Converted, Painted, Based and Photographed by Tony Harwood

The loveable anti-hero is somewhat bu****ed when the chest whose charge he was given, the same chest upon which three powerful Notables of Albion's army are waiting, expecting thier Cryptmass deliveries, doesn't seem to have made the journey it was meant to.


Regular followers of our lovable rogue and anti-hero Foul Mouth Freddy will have some idea of the rather crude and debauched behaviour of this shabby Red Coat Sergeant. You may well ask yourself why the newly commissioned Earl of Webster would trust such a character with the delivery of his campaign chest to the forward base of Olde Nosey. Not any old campaign chest either but the special Cryptmass dispatch from the brass in Londinium.

I have to admit that as I relate this latest short story, I find myself asking the same question.

But we digress; Freddy and his Posse had in fact been paid in advance by the Earl to ensure that the aforementioned chest bearing Cryptmass joy was safely transported from the heaving harbour of Noportoe in Algarvey to the small town of Minubles which, at least for the moment, the Grand Army of Albion called home.

I think we can see where this is going!

As was usual with Freddy and his Posse I feel that I should draw a veil over the activities of the last couple of days (and more importantly nights) so as to not upset the sensibilities of the more genteel of readers.

Suffice to say that with only a day to go until the arrival of the Earl Freddy found himself with no campaign chest, a thumping headache and a dire feeling of utter dread.

The day got no better when Wogan enquired how the transportation of this storage box was proceeding, adding that Olde Nosey himself was looking forward to sampling the delights of the 12 year old Glen Garry Whisky that the Earl had agreed to ship out of ‘Old Blighty’ as a special present for the Commander in Chief of Albions forces.

Freddy sighed.

It was but mere minutes later when the regimental major, Sim-San, collared Freddy with a similar enquiry, except this time demanding news about his rare collection of prized military medals that Webster had agreed to carry with him after they had been cleaned, polished and re-ribboned back in Londinium. Something he did every Cryptmass it transpired.

Freddy groaned.

Freddy’s day didn’t get any better when Captain Flashorc questioned where he can find the campaign chest as his brand new cavalry officers boots were also housed within. A Cryptmass gift from the Admiralty for staying well away from their ships apparently.

As Freddy might say; “Oh S**t!”.

Actually Freddy would have, and in fact did, say something quite different and much much worse, but for now as we are so early into our story and it's Cryptmass, I think this will suffice.

Back in camp Freddy called a meeting to try and understand how he could have gotten into such a ****ing pickle.

Mad Micky Hooligan (who was also suffering from a huge hum-dinger of a hangover) related part of the adventure since leaving Noportoe.

It seemed that the up-front payment was quickly spent in the bars and bordellos of Noportoe. In fact, to a man, every penny of the fee was spent on drink, women and gambling. It was for this very reason that the first part of this eventful journey remained but a blur to many of the group.

It didn’t help that on the way back the group was continually trying to outwit Ferach troops, Catalucian Guerrillas and avoid the odd Albion Commissariat patrol to boot. A slow pace and an ever watchful attitude was their main concern.

In addition to this, Mad Micky wasn’t at all sure that they actually had the chest, believing that it had been left in Noportoe. After all they had so many other things on their minds.

Kenny relayed his recollections, adding to the tale, he was sure he had seen the chest when they had stopped at the convent. He was sure he had seen it then. However as so often happens when this group of Albion’s ‘finest’ meets up with a group of ‘ladies’, their thoughts were rather distracted!

As the memory of the convent visit was relived, there were many who grinned and whistled at the way in which these Orc redcoats had been so royally entertained by the young ladies during their short visit.

Blewitt was certain that he had packed it, but now that he concentrated, he wasn’t sure where he had packed it.

As you can see things were looking bleak.

Tricky Dickie had a thought. For Dickie, not the thinker of the group, thoughts tend to be rather one-dimensional;

“Now that we know what was included in the chest, why don’t we just replace them? I’m sure that we can find a bottle of old Whisky, a couple of shiny medals and a new pair of boots. I know I can.” By this Tricky Dickie of course meant that he could easily find them and steal them! It was what nhe was best at.

Freddy pinched the top of his nose and clamped his eyes shut, firstly to help him stop swearing and secondly to shut out the searing headache that he was still suffering from. Dicky was bl**dy brilliant at acquiring things but even he couldn't get all three things in just a few hours.

Freddy's outburst when it came shocked even this group of hard-skinned Orcs. So I will not repeat it here, but a plan had formed and he relayed it to his Orcs.

Freddy (in his usual colourful way) instructed Tricky Dickie to snaffle a handful of bl**dy medals and get Festering Martin to polish them up with whatever ****ing rotgut he could lay his hands on. The ribbons could be gotten hold of from the local ‘seamstress’ (for a price no doubt) and then have them packaged in some box or other. "Right on." said Tricky and in a blur, he had gone.

As Freddy watched him disappear, he wondered what in Haydes he had let himself in for.

Next Freddy pointed to Kenny. "You, go and get me a bottle of the best Whisky you can find. And no, I don’t want to ****ing know how you ***ing get hold of it." Kenny nodded, stood and somewhat sheepishly strolled off in the direction of the main camp.

This just left the riding boots. Freddy turned to Mickey and Blewitt, both of whom had bl**dy scarpered. S**tbags, thought Freddy.

Mumbling to himself, Freddy reasoned how difficult could it be to find a pair of ****ing riding boots? Clearly said by a soldier whose only knowledge of horses was that one end had once ****ing bit him – and the other end had once ***ing s**t on him!


Tricky sauntered into the local gambling den and, after purchasing a glass of their best liquor, searched out quite simply the hardest looking individual in the whole dive. Tricky drank down the liquor in one gulp then (not one for the niceties of conversation) marched over to this huge brute and promptly head butted him in to unconsciousness. Resisting the urge to rub his throbbing brow Tricky proclaimed that a certain collection of medals had been stolen and if they were not returned (or suitable replacements, he made this very clear) that very evening – others would suffer the same Glasgee Kiss. He then turned on his heels and marched out. To his relief no one followed and as he turned the first corner, he crumbled to his knees and rubbed his bruised head without being observed.


Kenny had not been idle. He had already broken into the Officers mess and taking a suitably expensive looking, but nearly empty, bottle of coloured liquor had started to pour a drop of Whisky (and as it happens Brandy) from each of the bottles on display into his chosen flask.

As many readers will know this plan has its pitfalls as in any self-respecting drinking establishment throughout the known universes certain marks are made on the bottles to show how much was (or should be) left.  Despite falling far short of the lofty mark of self-respect the officers mess did ascribe to this practice. Thankfully Kenny noticed but had to think fast. Seeing a large tea urn residing in the corner of the building, he replaced the missing Whisky (and Brandy) with cold tea. Cold tea carefully filtered through an old sock no less. Now all that remained was to seal the bottle neck with hot wax.


Freddy had also formulated a plan that some, including our Freddy, would call a ****ing cunning plan. As night fell he had made it known that any riding boots left outside tents (or other billets) of the local Orc cavalry officers would be cleaned, refurbished and returned by morning. And as with many of Freddy’s plans, a few coppers would be charged for this seemingly ‘premium’ service.

As night came, Freddy found the worse pair of boots that he could find and replaced them with a pair of infantry boots, no doubt taken from some unsuspecting private of the 24th. He then searched out the next worse pair and replaced these with the first set, he continued this process until he had a reasonable pair of what looked like nearly-new riding boots (not to mention a pocket full of jangling coins – these officers were not the brightest members of ****ing Orc nobility!)

Then taking this best pair of boots to the regimental blacksmith, he had them re-shod with both leather and metal soles ready to be presented to that bl**dy b*****d Flashorc.


As dawn broke Freddy carried a large wooden box to the main parade ground and awaited the arrival of The Earl of Webster.

The Earl decamped from the luxurious carriage and Freddy presented the box to him. Apologising for the state of the chest, which the Earl could see had been a little damaged due to what Freddy referred to as a ‘certain encounter with some bl**dy pointy-ears’ on the trip from Noportoe. The Earl, not accustomed to Freddy’s guile and bluster, took the box without question and then proceeded to distribute the merchandise to Olde Nosey, Sim-San and Flashorc.

As the three seemingly appeased Notables wandered off with the Earl Freddy thanked his ****ing bl**dy lucky b*****d stars. He grinned. He really was a lucky c...

Freddy removed his shako and wiped his forehead with a rather scruffy neckerchief before turning and making his way back to his posse – confident that all trouble had been well and truly averted (at least for now).

Without warning Freddy was distracted by a tap on the shoulder. Looking up he saw a coach driver. A vaguely familiar looking coach driver. A coach driver who enquired where Freddy wanted the chest delivered? Memories returned as if a veil had been lifted. Freddy had paid for a ****ing coach to transport the campaign chest with the Earl’s s**t in – rather than having to lug it all that way on foot!

"**** Me!", said Freddy to no one in particular as he marched back to his posse, smile ever widening holding a bag full of expensive medals and a new pair of riding boots under one arm and a rare bottle of whisky under the other which he was already busily working the cork out of.

He smiled showing the full horror of his Orc teeth and turned to look out from the words written on the page and, breaking the fourth wall, he raised the bottle to his lips and winked.

"Merry ****ing Cryptmass to all of you!" 


Authors Note

Foul-Mouth Freddy stories tend to develop in rather peculiar ways and this was no exception. I will confirm that each of the stories recounted above are in fact based on real occurrences. Let’s just say that names and dates have been changes to protect the not-so innocent.

A very old family friend, let’s call him Neil. Once had a rare and precious collection of medals – which had belonged to his father. When these medals were stolen Neil went to one of the roughest pubs in Swansea and after buying everyone a drink stood on a table and proclaimed that if the medals were returned there would be more free drinks. However if they were not; He would see to it that this particular dive would be promptly closed down. Neil was a man of influence. Needless to say the medals were safely returned.

The same Neil had the poor sense to allow my father to ‘house-sit’ for him when he and his family were on holiday in Portugal. Dad, who liked the odd tipple, was intrigued to see Neil’s large collection of very prestigious and well aged Whisky and after opening a couple of bottles and sampling the ‘water-of-life’ was informed by a well-meaning friend, just how rare and expensive these particular bottles were. Dad, not to be out-done, topped up the bottles with cold tea and sealed the caps with superglue. (You can now see where I get my wickedness from).

Finally, the same Neil was a well known practical joker and on a trip to Dublin (to see Wales play Rugby) swapped all the shoes that had been placed outside the doors of the hotel rooms (they were placed there to be cleaned and polished for the next morning). A practical joke that re-bounded on him as the whole group were late to the match and missed the kick-off.


Foul Mouth Freddy Will Return in 2015 !


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